


Victims of Circumstance - 7/20 – Feelings of Home

by motsureru



Series: Victims of Circumstance [7]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-22
Updated: 2008-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:58:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for Season 1 and Season 2. This is a <b><span>sequel</span> </b>to <i>Any Other Night</i>, which is a <b><span>sequel</span></b> to <i>Broken Glass. </i>See links below.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victims of Circumstance - 7/20 – Feelings of Home

**Author's Note:**

> An enormous amount of thanks to [](http://etoile-dunord.livejournal.com/profile)[**etoile_dunord**](http://etoile-dunord.livejournal.com/), who edits my commas and makes me happy doing it. <3 Also thanks to both [](http://etoile-dunord.livejournal.com/profile)[**etoile_dunord**](http://etoile-dunord.livejournal.com/) and [](http://oximore.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://oximore.livejournal.com/)**oximore**  for their help with the French. 

**Teaser _:_** _It was when they had finished, washed all the dishes, and prepared to relax for the evening in the bedroom, that Mohinder got his real shock of the day._

__

 

.7Feelings of Home

 

The last time Gabriel Gray had gone shopping for a new apartment had been years and years ago. A lifetime ago, he could honestly say, since he considered that man long gone and dead and a new one in his place. Sylar didn’t even want to use that name anymore; for France, Thomas would suffice. Would his father have been proud to see his son take that name? Maybe. Sylar saw himself doing neither evil nor good with it. Like his father, he supposed, he would add up to nothing but a name, like the words _Gray & Sons _hanging on an empty window. 

Sylar slid his hands into his pockets as he walked down the street, looking around at the few individuals out for a midday stroll along with him. Mohinder had left early in the morning at Sebastian’s bidding and had given Sylar a generous sum of Euros with which to venture out into the world. First on his list of things to find would be linens; sheets for the bed, pillows, and curtains for those dreadful windows that faced east. Then he would need food items so that they weren’t stuck paying exuberant prices at a restaurant and he might resume cooking as something to pass the time.

And pass the time, Sylar realized, he must do. 

Even on his quest for household needs, looking this way and that into the windows of stores, one in particular caught his eye: a combination book store and café. Sylar crossed the street to get to it, standing briefly in the window to gaze within. Once he finally entered, Sylar walked down each aisle within aimlessly, fingertips grazing the spines of novels and biographies alike, eyes scanning over titles he soon came to realize he could not understand.

What would his time be if he could not even read? 

Up and down each row, Sylar finally came to one of use: the section for foreigners. Simple phrase books, every day conversation… he would need those, eventually, but he didn’t want to have merely passing French. He wanted to know the language to its utmost, able to stand on par with any other speaker. He would not begin with simplistic phrases, asking where to find the tourist center or other such nonsense. 

Slipping a green book from the shelf, Sylar flipped through the pages briefly. An English to French and French to English dictionary. He would start here, and only after his gifted memory had served him to the utmost would he bother to give his attention to a simplistic phrase book with grammatical structure. What would be the use in learning how to build a house if one did not know what wood was? Sylar took his purchase to the cashier and spoke not a word through the transaction. There would be a time he would come back here and speak with that clerk, or buy any book in the entire store he wanted; but that day was not today. It would come soon enough.

Exiting and crossing the road again, Sylar tucked his hands back into his pockets, resuming his intake of the stores along the street, his plastic bag swinging at his wrist. The other stores held little to no interest for him; they were neither useful nor stimulating. It was not until two or three blocks later that another shop caught his eye.

It stood on a corner spot, base of brown brick and square in shape. On the outside, the shop was all glass windows, and the left-hand plate held florid white lettering that read: _Lefebvre_ _montres & réparations_. The windows sat a foot or two above the concrete, so visitors had to crane their necks just a little to look inside, and enter by a small set of steps. 

Sylar walked up to the window of the shop and peered in, squinting just a little. The first thing he saw was a long U-shaped display case, whose rightmost side displayed a series of watches against brilliant red felt to shoppers walking by Sylar’s window. He stood, hands in pockets, gazing inside, watching faces with hands ticking by while his throat tightened in apprehension. Looking in farther, Sylar caught movement.

An old man sat at a stool on the left-hand side of the shop, a monocle eyepiece grasped between the bone of the eye socket and his cheek, and he peered intently down at a watch braced to the counter by his hand. Its cover was open, insides bared, naked and exposed to the thin tool that shook gently in his wrinkled and bony hand.

Sylar couldn’t help but stare, slightly wide-eyed, at the man before him. He stared at his feeble grasp, but intense scrutiny, watched the concentration that made the watch the most vital piece in his life to fit together. He was old; nearly eighty, Sylar judged by the thinness of his skin, the spots of age on the back of his hands, the way his jowls quivered when he breathed. Sylar found himself holding his breath, awed by the old man’s sheer determination to do his precious work.

Noticing the presence of another, the old man looked up, and suddenly that aged face was staring back into Sylar’s. He smiled warmly and waved the hand holding his tool, beckoning his guest inside with quavering fingers.

Immediately Sylar felt the muscles in his chest constrict, and a fluttering feeling welled in his belly. He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets and promptly turned away, hurrying farther down the sidewalk. He crossed the road, narrowly avoiding an oncoming car, and rushed away on swift feet as quickly as he could.

What would Thomas Gray have looked like, if he survived the wear of more than forty-three years of life? Would he have found solace for a mediocre life in mazes of barrel bridges and center wheels? Would he have sat stubbornly behind his table with trembling hands while his only son went on to greater, better things than being the watchmaker’s son?

Sylar fled the questions as earnestly as he avoided even thinking the answers. A simple old man in a shop had shown him that he wanted to erase the vision of Thomas Gray in his mind even more desperately than the image of Gabriel Gray.

 

 

The morning had come and gone in a flurry of introductions and tours around Orléans’ Catalyst laboratories. Mohinder felt the slightest bit overwhelmed, for he’d been out of real laboratory settings with professional individuals for some time, now, and he couldn’t help but remember his last experience with any company at all, being used by Thompson. But on the whole, Sebastian had been jovial, polite, and quite the chatterbox, something that made him feel more at ease in spite of the subtle intimidation of new surroundings.

Mohinder found that he liked the man, in all honesty, but that Sebastian reminded him a little of himself, a younger, more naive self who had not yet removed his rose-colored glasses. When he listened to Sebastian rattle on in excitement about this or that Mohinder felt a sort of sympathetic nostalgia, sympathy for a man whose dreams it seemed had not yet been shattered by the harsh realities and dangers of the world. It was only a matter of time, he felt, and soon enough Sebastian’s smiles would have the same hard edge Mohinder felt on his own lips. He mourned the loss of such carefree enthusiasm.

Mohinder felt as though he’d barely had a word in edgewise for the first half of the day, but it was at a lunch break, when he and Sebastian sat down and Mohinder got a chance to really breathe, that the conversation turned to something more important than colleagues and facilities. They sat around a small circular table, Sebastian pushing aside the cafeteria food.

“I’m really not as flighty as I seem, you know.” Sebastian broke their silence with a certain gravity creeping into his voice. The smile on his face seemed a little reluctant, attempting to withdraw itself a little even after it appeared. “I’m just excited, honestly, Doctor Suresh-”

“You can call me Mohinder.” Mohinder had been hearing ‘Doctor Suresh, Doctor Suresh’ all morning, and frankly he disliked (and was tired of) hearing the term repeated over and over again.

“-Mohinder.” Sebastian corrected himself with a sort of relieved slump of his shoulders. “I just can’t wait to get started working on this. I know you’ll bring so much to this research where I’ve felt strain and limits because of my own lack of knowledge.”

Mohinder smiled. “Well, that’s why we’ve been partnered. I’ve encountered this virus, but I’m no specialist… You know, I won’t be starting any work in the lab today, obviously, so why don’t you give me a briefing on what you’ve uncovered so far? Then do you think I could take the rest of the files home to look at? I’m still a bit jetlagged, but I’d like to take a closer look later.”

“Oh yes, of course of course.” Sebastian nodded, running a hand over his pale blonde hair. A sort of seriousness seemed to fall over his normally expressive features all at once, and Sebastian pulled in his chair a little. “Sanjog first presented with symptoms of neurological dysfunction: trouble with motor skills, trembling of the hands, the most basic physical manifestations. He had good days and he had bad days, but he became steadily more ill over time, and after the tests came up with nothing on scans the hospital was at a loss as to what to do with him. It ended up that of all things, his nucleotides were decomposing. That’s why Mira called me in.”

“His nucleotides?” Mohinder echoed, leaning forward on his elbows as he listened. It was like staring into Thompson’s screen all over again, feeling the weight of a child’s impending death.

Sebastian nodded. “The deterioration was what ended up making it obvious. But he insisted on one symptom that we couldn’t measure,” Sebastian continued, green eyes intense as they watched Mohinder, as though he were to reveal one of life’s greatest secrets, and the very thought held him, too, captive. “Sanjog told us he had ceased to _dream._ ”

Mohinder drew in a slow breath between his teeth. He thought of Sanjog walking him through his dreamscapes, showing him the secrets of his sister, his father’s departure from India, his father’s death… “To dream… and so you-”

“Went immediately to Mira.” Sebastian added, “She and Nirand had spoken at length about Chandra’s work with the boy, and I needed a more complete history on him. It seems your father thought he had the ability to enter dreams, or produce them, something of the sort. I was fascinated. But of course there was no proof. Nirand also told me that the virus your sister suffered from didn’t have a cure; this was to be the second case ever.”

Shaking his head slowly, Mohinder rubbed his chin, eyes distant as he thought. “The third… a girl in New York was brought to me with the same symptoms. I cured her.”

“A cure?!” Sebastian’s face lit up. “You must tell me about it! This is a breakthrough, Doctor Su- M-Mohinder!” he said excitedly.

But Mohinder did not share his enthusiasm. If it weren’t for Molly’s case he would have perhaps thought the virus of less immediate importance. If it weren’t for Sanjog’s case he might have thought it coincidental… but the virus seemed to be affecting children with abilities anywhere. Mohinder was no more pleased with this prospect than he was with revealing more information about his father’s work to another company.

“I’m afraid I can’t go into the details right now, Sebastian,” Mohinder replied, smiling slightly. “You’ve given me a lot to think on, but what I’d really like to do is read through your materials. I never wrote up a formal report on my findings in New York, so I can do that tonight, if you’d like, so I can similarly brief you tomorrow. Then we can get started?” he offered, pushing back his chair and standing up. 

“Of course, Mohinder. I’d be happy to do that. Please follow me to my- our- office and I’ll get the materials right away.” Sebastian picked up his tray with a smile.

Mohinder nodded in return, thinking to himself about how he was going to have to protect Molly’s identity even while in France. He wished for a moment that he might call her, and wondered if she had a better life, now. He imagined a nice family, a nice school, playmates… all normal. All things he couldn’t have possibly given her. A life full of people blissfully unaware of her talents, keeping her safe from the reality that was a darker, callous, adult world of wrong doings. No, Mohinder wouldn’t give her to any company, not even his own.

 

 

Mohinder arrived home relatively early (not as early as he would have liked, given Sebastian’s tendency to talk), just before dinner time managed to come about. He was rewarded by a delicious smell wafting from their small kitchen. The living room was as he’d left it, still a blank white area with a sad looking couch, but that was alright with him. He peeked over into the kitchen area, finding his eyes met with Sylar’s back.

“I’m home. Cooking already?” Mohinder asked, dropping his white storage box full of files onto the couch. He slipped off his jacket and tossed it overtop, walking into the kitchen. It smelled delicious, of course. Sylar was leaning over some vegetables on a cutting board, and what appeared to be a small wok already heated up sat on the stove.

“It’ll be done shortly. How was the lab?” Sylar asked. He was slicing up green peppers into thin strips, and paused to pick one up and hand it back to Mohinder over his shoulder.

Mohinder smiled and took it, crunching on the slice. “I’m waiting for Sebastian to run out of gas while he speaks. I mostly was toured about and introduced to other workers. I brought the important things home. Did you find a grocer alright?”

“Took some searching,” Sylar replied vaguely. “Grab some plates from the cabinet.”

There was something a little mellow about his demeanor, but Mohinder didn’t think much of it. His mind was already turning in circles, anticipating what he might find in the white box. He set out plates and glasses (for it appeared Sylar had done some thorough kitchen shopping, at least), and the two had a meal with what seemed to be very natural, normal small talk. 

It was when they had finished, washed all the dishes, and prepared to relax for the evening in the bedroom, that Mohinder got his real shock of the day. He was expecting a room just as bare as the main one when he headed to the back of the hall, but what he got was something quite different.

The bedroom was decorated nicely, though simply, in colors of egg-shell and a deep, midnight blue. There were curtains on the window with minimal but elegant curving and curling designs on the thick fabric that were echoed in a nice bedspread. There was a heavy comforter upon the bed, accompanied by two pillows encased in dark blue as well. To the left of the bed stood a tall light with an open circular casing to the ceiling, one that cast a warm glow over the room, actually making it appear lived in and comfortable.

When Mohinder stood in the doorway with his box, staring at this new, surprising sight, he nearly dropped the item onto his toes. “Sylar… this is… …This looks wonderful,” he admitted softly, stepping inside. He slipped off his shoes, kicking them to the side, and set his box at the end of the bed. Sylar was leaning in the doorway, arms stretched to either side and forearms braced on the frames. Mohinder turned to look at him. “You managed to get this, _and_ food, with the money I gave you today?” he asked incredulously.

A small, satisfied smirk crossed Sylar’s lips for having impressed his lover. “I’m a foreigner, not a fool. I ran my own business, Mohinder. I know how to shop economically.” 

“And decorate, apparently,” Mohinder said with a small, disbelieving laugh. The colors reminded him of his room in his mother’s house, and he couldn’t help but have the small nagging thought at the back of his mind that it was intentional. Mohinder unbuttoned the top two buttons to his shirt and walked around the bed to the left side, sitting down and scooting back to pull his legs up. He dragged the box over to his side with a small grunt. “To work, I suppose.”

Sylar watched him for a moment, then entered as well. He grabbed his book from the desk and reached out- the pillow on the right side of the bed leapt up on its own and came to his hand. He pressed it against Mohinder’s ankles, then flopped on the bed perpendicular to the man and leaned back, using both as his headrest. Sylar crossed a leg over his knee and turned to page one.

Mohinder raised an eyebrow at the weight against his lower legs and peered over at Sylar as he began to pull out manila folders from the box. He had to smile, just a little, at the familiarity they seemed to have now, a return to what they had established in London. It was comfortable. Mohinder watched the man squint at the pages in front of him, and then leaned over to see what he had in his hands. 

“…Are you reading the dictionary?”

“The English to French dictionary,” Sylar corrected candidly.

“You’re not going to learn French just by reading the dictionary,” Mohinder objected with a small frown. At least, he didn’t think he could.

“I don’t tell you how to do your research, Doctor Suresh,” Sylar said mildly, turning to the next page.

“…” Mohinder stared at him for a moment longer, pursing his lips. It was no use arguing, he knew. Sylar could be just as eccentric as he could, at times, and they were equally stubborn men. “Tomorrow, why don’t we go get you a new pair of glasses?”

Sylar lowered the book against his chest, looking over at Mohinder. “What for?”

“So you don’t go completely blind trying to read French from a dictionary for hours,” Mohinder replied, smiling a little. “Trust me, if you go any more blind I’ll start to fear for my meals. What if _I_ started having to cook? You don’t want to die young, do you? We’ll pick out something nice and classy. …No thick frames, I promise.”

The mixture of menace (and mirth?) in Sylar’s expression was inscrutable. 

“We’ll see,” was all he said, lifting the book again.

Mohinder lifted a manila folder to hide his face and smiled quietly to himself.


End file.
